Citadel Rain
by thatghost
Summary: The root of Double Agent Drakkach Venn's animosity towards his sister Darth Astara is revealed. Kaliyo cameo. Does contain some mature- but not graphic- content.


The holo flickered static for a mere instant before cutting out, its final image causing a thin sickle of smile to break the frozen cast of his features. His sister shaking, her husband clenching his hand into a fist. Too perfect. It would be seen, widely. He'd been careful to capture every word, each expression; all that was left to do was some flash editing and then he would let the recording loose into the proper conduits. Soon.

He sauntered over to the largest window in his Kaas City residence. The unceasing gloom was soul-killing for some but he found it invigorating. It was home to him, the lightning, the damp scent of jungle permeating even the most airtight chambers in the Citadel. If Double Agent Drakkach Venn felt an emotion approaching love for anything or anyone at all it was solely for Dromund Kaas. The planet was his mistress- he might leave when duty took precedence over comfort yet he always came back. _The Heartless_, many had called him- in whispers- ever since he'd struck a devastating blow to the Evocii filth on Hutta in the early days of his career. The nickname was erroneous. He did have a heart of sorts, and it belonged to the rain.

The rain and Imperial Intelligence.

An acerbic laugh drew his attention away from the window. Kaliyo swayed towards him, _that_ glint in her eyes. She was the only individual he trusted in his private quarters both on _The Knife_ and Dromund Kaas. It didn't surprise him that she was here although he'd last left her in the spaceport with the rest of his crew. Her desires lent her admirable stealth when she was determined to have something. And she was determined, that much was evident.

"How sweet. Cozy little family scene." She proffered a tumbler half-full of opaque greenish liquid. "Figured you'd like the strong stuff after that, big man. What say I clean your gun? I'll clean your whole arsenal, Drak," her hand flattened on his chest and then jerked away as if burnt, "you're doing that thing again. The jaw thing." As abruptly as he unclenched his jaw she stepped back from him. Wise. She knew his moods, and in this mood he could be too dangerous even for her. "Yeah, I'll just take myself down to the Nexus. Never trouble finding some action there. Do I get points later for coming back covered in blood?"

"Only if it's yours. If it isn't then we'll have to remedy that, won't we?" It had been bemusing to crack her. He could never break her, not with her maddeningly strong self-confidence. She feared him up to a certain point, under particular circumstances, and that was enough for him. For the time being.

"Bring anything home for you? Spiced nerf milk? A dancer or two to tell you a bedtime story? Or maybe-"

"Get. Out." He watched her strut to the door, the drink still in her grip. Only the stars knew what was in that glass. He trusted her with his material possessions. He didn't trust her with his life. Kaliyo departed noisily- the sharp clink of the tumbler slammed down on some surface or other, half-heard cursing, and then she was, thankfully, gone.

Drakkach was aware that her remark about dancers was intended to needle him. He couldn't bring himself to remember his mother as an overtly neglectful parent. She'd done what she had to do, there on Nar Shaddaa, confined to the Red Light Sector; it was a confinement of her own choosing, being one of the few Rattataki cantina girls on the planet. High demand, and not simply for her dancing: the ugly truth, he knew it and so did his sister Astara. Even in her final moments their mother couldn't- or wouldn't- identify their father. As Astara had wept in the corner he'd kept up his interrogation to no avail. Mother, bleeding out courtesy of a Hutt assassin's blade in their dingy rooms near Ufora...he'd then known both the truth and exactly which genes had affixed themselves where. She'd not just been an ornament, a plaything. Their mother had been a collector of intel, an informant, a mercenary agent. A very talented liar. A wearer of a thousand masks.

The revelation had been cold. He hadn't wanted to be like her. He'd wanted to take up a saber and defend the Empire.

He'd been thwarted. By his sister.

_They hid behind a great heap of desh in one of the back allies, his hand over Astara's mouth to keep her from making noticeable exclamations. The Jedi stood in stance inside a circle of gang-member corpses, still surrounded by ten thugs who were breathing; the Jedi himself was sporting a torn-open abdomen, a sly peek of innards catching Drakkach's passive curiosity. It wasn't the Jedi's wounds which actively held his interest, however, it was the lightsaber. Power with a pale jade glow. If only he could get to it he felt he could scorch that green to red and slice through the galaxy._

"_Shut it, something's wrong," he hissed in Astara's ear when she pulled at his fingers and kicked him in the shin._

_The carnage began anew but Drakkach saw something the Jedi didn't: a slicer on the perimeter frantically punching a sequence into some sort of handheld control. _

_Where they'd gotten a war droid like _that _from was anyone's guess. _

_A whirl of jade light, agonized howls, stink of melting alloys and cauterized flesh- and it was over. The few remaining gang members fled. Before he could stop her Astara dashed into the mess and leaned down to take the Jedi's saber as he lay in pieces beside a pile of smoking metal and bodies._

"_You can't use that!" He grabbed her arm, tried to dislodge the hilt from her fist._

_It sputtered back to life in her hand._

"_I can't?" She sported a smile he didn't recognize. Ever one to share, if only with him, she gave him the weapon. It crackled out. Died. "Did you think that was a Jedi?" Astara poked the fallen warrior's leg with the toe of her boot. "That was no Jedi. He was Sith."_

_Drakkach bent over to study the slack face and dull eyes. "Doesn't look Sith to me." He threw the lightsaber back at the desh heap. "How would you know, anyway?"_

"_I just know."_

"_She just knows." A sonorous voice from behind them. _

She knew then. She knew now.

The window beckoned to him once more. Incessant precipitation. A spike of lightning pierced his retinas for a second. He imagined he could feel it in his hands. It was all he could do, imagine. He would only ever be a master of gadgets and grenades.

_She just knows._

She had to be eliminated.

Cogs and circuits whirring in his mind, connections and interconnections and trails and possibilities, Drakkach The Heartless watched the rain lap down over the silhouette of the Citadel.

And grinned.


End file.
